


To Seek and Be Sought

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, The Big C (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Caretaking, Cecaelias, Consentacles, Gentle Sex, Hannibal Extended Universe, Happy Ending, Human Sacrifice, Love at First Sight, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Self-Bondage, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 06:30:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13184310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: Every winter, for one reason or another, the village sacrificed someoneto the somethingthat probably lived in the ocean as a means of appeasement. No one had been clear as to whether or not said appeasement actuallyworked,but it seemed to be as much of a holiday tradition for these folks as needlefelted stockings and overcooked goose. Decorate a tree; wrap presents; sing a few carols; offer a dubiously selected villager to an overgrown squid at the turn of the year.Everyone has to stop sometime, Lee supposes. At least there would be a villager with an unexpected extra year to their life—one of those holiday miracles. There's something almost poetic about the way his end is writing itself.***Because nothing says Happy Holidays like gentle consentacles.





	To Seek and Be Sought

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my super late contribution to #[WinterMurderland](http://hannibalcreative.tumblr.com/post/167460708564/we-couldnt-end-a-year-full-of-wonderful-creations). I had an especially awful November, and writing this was extremely cathartic. My hope is that it consoles you just as much, should you need it, and gives you warm fuzzies, because everyone needs more of those. <3
> 
> Betaed by favorite person [Llewcie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Llewcie/works). Any mistakes from thereon are absolutely mine.

They began to offer a living tribute to the sea shifter long before the village was even built, the healer told Lee. Not because the creature made demands of them, strangely enough, but because the villagers were simply _that scared_ of it. The sea shifter was violent without reason—at least, none the villagers had ever been able to discern. It was worst at the end of the year, when the ice began to form, patches of darkness that floated on the face of becalmed water.

“You can hear it screaming into the wind,” said the healer, “cursing us, calling out for a lost lover.”

“That’s very...every single ghost story ever, actually,” Lee replied.

The healer shrugged. “It’s as good an excuse as any.”

That was what fascinated Lee the most, honestly: the fact that no one had ever thought to question it, had simply accepted that there must be a reason for the oceanic nightmare and then attributed a story to it. Not even a single story, but multiple versions, each more ridiculous than the last. The shifter always forgets to stockpile for winter, the fishmonger told him, when the fish disappeared and swam off to warmer waters. According to the children in the village, it wasn’t hunger that motivated the creature, but greed. They weren’t sure _exactly_ what it wanted, though the general consensus seemed to be either pirate gold or a new bicycle.

“Does Saint Nicholas come for the monster?” Lee asked.

“I don’t think so,” a little girl with one pigtail said, dropping her end of the jump rope. “He doesn’t have a chimney. Not even a door!”

“And he _eats people,_ Nora.”

She turned around and stuck her tongue out at the boy. “Maybe because he doesn’t have a chimney!”

That had been notable, however; no one else had attributed a gender to the sea shifter. “Why do you think it’s a boy?”

Simultaneous cries of “Because boys are gross!” and “Because girls are weak!” and Lee really hadn’t known why he’d expected any different.

Regardless, every winter, for one reason or another, the village sacrificed some _one_ to the some _thing_ that probably lived in the ocean as a means of appeasement. No one had been clear as to whether or not said appeasement actually _worked,_ but it seemed to be as much of a holiday tradition for these folks as needle-felted stockings and overcooked goose. Decorate a tree; wrap presents; sing a few carols; offer a dubiously selected villager to an overgrown squid at the turn of the year.

Lee had wondered why the healer from the last village had hesitated before sending him along to the next, why she’d said, “You’ll find an end to your journey there, I’m certain.” Honestly, Lee wasn't sure why he hadn't stopped searching years and miles ago for the cure to the curse under his skin; believing the healer meant anything truly hopeful with her words was folly. But Lee _had_ hoped, if only for the week’s walk between villages. Maybe that was enough.

Everyone has to stop sometime, Lee supposes. At least there would be a villager with an unexpected extra year to their life—one of those holiday miracles.

He relaxes against the trunk of the tree, stretching his legs, looking out across the water. There aren't any ripples, no sign that anything predatory lies beneath the surface. It only reflects the sky, winter-bleak, as still and smooth as the sea. Tomorrow is the darkest day of the year, and today is Lee’s last day of all.

Lee smiles around another bite of roasted squash. There's something almost poetic about the way his end is writing itself.

 

* * *

 

From his informal survey of the villagers, Lee knows that there won't be a selection made until after dawn on the last day of the year. No one's fate should be decided on an empty stomach, apparently. Then again, it's likely the regular village schedule—everything's decided by dawn and finished by sunset, hatches battened down, lamps extinguished. Only Lee roams through it; only he and the whistling howl of the wind.

He’d seen the odd sort of sacrificial altar on his earlier stroll, a long metal pole stuck upright in the sea with a small platform. Likewise, Lee had seen the chest hidden in the rocks behind it on the shore. Sure enough, after a quick pick of the lock, Lee's suspicions as to the contents of the chest are confirmed. Inside lie two sets of chains and manacles. No escape for these sacrificial lambs.

It's strangely thrilling, the idea of affixing himself, of ceding his control to fate and helplessly waiting to see what lay ahead of him. Lee’s cock stirs inside his breeches. He accepts it, even embraces it.

Lee strips and leaves his clothes in a folded stack on the sand. A deep breath, and he sets his tools on top of it. No escape for him, either, and no turning back.

Fucked up as he knows it to be, his arousal is palpable as he swims out, chains in tow.

The platform is more of a seat, a flat sheet of steel just like the pole. Lee sits on it—he has to cross his feet behind the pole to keep himself seated on the platform, as well as from floating away. Quickly deciding that the second-longest of the chains is meant for his ankles, Lee takes a deep breath and dips his head below the water. It takes some maneuvering, especially while still holding the other sets of restraints, but Lee finally manages to bind his legs. The hooks drilled into the side of the pole help, letting him slip a link of the chain on each one to keep them locked.

One set down. Only two to go.

Aiming the center ring on the long chain toward the hook high above him is a challenge, especially when it's behind the pole. The loud _clink_ after many tries sends blood rushing down to his groin and an electric spark along his spine. Clapping himself in the irons on his upper arms is difficult, too; no wonder someone else is meant to do the binding.

The second of the manacles snaps shut. Only his wrists now, and that's easy.

Lee's cock is at full attention now, and he wonders if he's leaking into the water. Honestly, this is the best end he could have chosen for himself, to place himself at the mercy of a sea monster, one last great adventure. He wonders if it has sex with its victims before killing and, very likely, consuming them. Hopefully. Lee likes the idea—the sexy part, anyway.

All to do now but sit and wait, to enjoy the way the tide laps lightly at his nipples, and the play of the water against his engorged cock, cool and teasing. Lee thinks he might meditate, but that proves impossible. Instead, he has to close his eyes and calmly measure his breath, trying his best not to moan from all the sensation.

Lee's surprised at how short of a wait he has, hearing the soft splash of disrupted water in front of him not long after binding himself. He starts to open his eyes, then startles at the touch of fingers on his cheek.

“Keep them shut, gorgeous,” says what Lee can only assume to be the sea shifter. “Let me look at you.”

The monster does more than look. It runs callused hands along Lee's skin, tracing his body with its palms, and Lee finally allows himself a tiny groan.

“I've never had someone offer themself,” the shifter murmurs in Lee’s ear. “Definitely never had anyone this fucking turned on by it. I could smell you in the sea.” A kiss on Lee's pulse, and then, “I've been waiting for you.”

“Have you?” Lee can't manage more than a whisper, can hardly hear himself.

“Feels like forever. You believe in fate, darling?”

Lee laughs breathlessly. “I live at serendipity’s whim.”

The monster—but no, it's too gentle to be a true monster—tells him, “I lost my wife to a demon of the air. Stole her from me, the little shit. So I went to a witch to get her back, but then _she_ fucking tricked me.”

“Witches are prone to doing that, yes.”

It—he—can't keep his mouth off of Lee. “When Gabi rejected me again,” and he sighs against the crook of Lee's neck, barely pulling his lips away, “I took my own fucking life. The witch brought me back, like this. Told me I'd asked to have the love of my life, and Gabi wasn't it. So here I am, stuck as half a fucking octopus, and not exactly happy about the situation.”

Lee hums, baring his neck further. “Why an octopus?”

“Why fucking not, I guess.” He must shrug—the water displaces. “She said I had to stay alive so...I guess cecaelian was as immortal as she could get.”

“And why me?”

“Because you came to me freely.”

Lee swallows; his mouth is dry. “And you already love me?”

“I will.” The shifter chuckles. “Beautiful fucking thing, you are.”

“So then you aren't going to fuck, kill, and eat me?” Lee rolls his shoulders one at a time; his arms arms are beginning to ache.

“I don't kill and eat any of them,” he replies. “Just take them off to the other shore. I've got no fucking clue why the village thinks I'm a screaming, raging, bad weather-inflicting nightmare. Annoying as fuck.”

And Lee can't stop laughing and smiling, can't keep from opening his eyes. The man in front of him is strangely beautiful, an odd kind of ethereal, hair long and wild, a piece of errant seaweed woven through it. He has fangs, sort of, the sharpened teeth of a piranha, and high cheekbones speckled and accented by dark algae that reminds Lee of kohl.

“I want to touch you,” Lee says. The sea shifter reacts quickly, and Lee's freed of all his bonds at once by deft fingers and slick coils that can only be the man's tentacles. Lee tries not to relax into them; he fails.

“You...like them. I don't disgust you.” He sounds shocked and grateful and amazed all at once. Lee only nods. “Fuck. Fucking shit, _please,_ let me take you home.” It's endlessly endearing, that this man who only moments ago professed his belief that Lee was his true love, still waits for Lee's consent.

“What's your name?” asks Lee, reaching out to put his arms around his neck, shivering as both tentacles and heavily furred arms wrap around him to support him.

“Nigel. Who are you, darling?”

“Lee.” He lets himself be cradled against Nigel as they begin to move through the water. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for not eating me.”

Nigel grins against Lee's forehead.

 

* * *

 

They only duck under the water once—“I'm the one with both gills and lungs here,” Nigel says, “and you're a frail fucking _wisp.”—_ and only long enough to swim into Nigel’s underwater cave, surfacing in a large, surprisingly homey hollow inside the cliffs. Lee worries momentarily about fresh oxygen, but then notices the chimney-like opening far above them, letting in the moonlight. Nigel’s made something close to a nest, all soft seagrass and crudely-made pillows; Lee imagines they're stuffed with the shed feathers of the cormorants that live in above-ground caves of their own. There are shelves and furniture made of driftwood, and ensconced torches Nigel is moving around the room to swiftly light, and scavenged equipment from sunken ships.

“Is that a refrigerator and a stove?” Lee notices in the furthest corner, a tiny kitchen hidden in the hollow of a rock. He shakes his head. “Silly question, of course they are.” Nigel points out a trickling stream from one of the rock walls; it falls across a paddle wheel and trickles out to the entrance and into the sea. “Water-powered. You're quite the magician yourself, it seems.”

Nigel smirks slightly, setting Lee down on the rock floor. He pulls a cup off of a shelf, dipping it into the stream. “Come on,” he tells Lee. “You look thirsty.”

And Lee is, takes huge gulps of cold water before Nigel makes him slow down. He suddenly realizes exactly how tired he is, as well, letting himself slump against Nigel. His erection is long gone, no matter how curious he is about Nigel’s tentacles, not to mention that he's beginning to feel the emotional pull toward Nigel, himself.

Nigel gathers and holds him in those same tentacles, in four of his eight extra arms. “You're sick, aren't you?”

The question Lee's been dreading since they left the village inlet. “Yes. I've been traveling for eleven years now,” he explains, “trying to find the cure to it.”

“And nothing?”

“Nothing. I'd expected to finally find death at the village. Instead, I found you.”

Nigel’s limbs tighten around Lee's body; it's intensely comforting, a welcome pressure that relaxes him further. “You want to die, then?”

“Not really,” says Lee, shaking his head. “It just seems inevitably soon, that's all.”

“Would you—” Nigel breaks off, kissing the top of Lee’s head. “Will you let me take care of you, anyway?”

Lee pulls an arm free of a tentacle, immediately missing it. But the corded muscles of Nigel’s neck feel wonderful—it's a more than decent trade-off. “No one's ever asked me that before.”

“Then they were all fucking worthless.” More quietly, he adds, “You should've had the whole shitting world. Fucking deserve it.”

Nigel moves them toward the soft nest that must serve as a bed, lying them both down, Lee still held tightly in all of his arms. His hands are searching, finding all of the little scars on Lee's skin, mementos of years of false hope. The touches are reverent, and Lee feels so lost.

“It isn't fair to you,” whispers Lee, “to get attached only to lose me and mourn and be lonesome all over again.” Lee can't help it, beginning to quietly cry.

 _“Shhhh,”_ and Nigel’s stroking down Lee's bare back. “We're destined to go together, darling. Neither of us will ever be alone again. I fucking promise.”

Nigel keeps stroking him, and shushing him, and Lee's never felt so loved in his life, can't believe that was fate’s intention for him, that the suffering has all served a purpose. It's calming beyond measure, and Lee gratefully lets Nigel coax him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up to a stream of warm sunshine through the natural skylight. The torches have long since burned out, giving the cave an air of wintry mid-afternoon dusk. Nigel is still wrapped around him; he snores in Lee's ear, making him giggle. It's enough to wake Nigel up, blinking blearily to consciousness as Lee turns to look at him, his red-amber eyes still cloudy with sleep.

“Good morning,” Lee says, tucking a long strand of hair behind Nigel’s ear. He thinks about untangling the seaweed, but it's too charming to disturb.

“Morning,” Nigel echoes, yawning. He snuggles closer—Lee's never had an actual octopus warm his bed before. Hardly compares to a fully asleep human. “Hungry?”

“Only for you, at the moment,” which is true. Lee's wanted to feel Nigel on more than the outside since they met, even when he was distraught.

That's enough to fully wake Nigel up. “Before breakfast? Not that I'm fucking complaining,” he adds.

“Instead of breakfast.” Lee lets his fingers wander through the pelt on Nigel’s chest. “You're very fuzzy for a squid man.”

“That a problem for you?”

 _“Gods,_ no.”

Nigel laughs loudly. “Between the hair and the extra limbs and the self bondage, I'm starting to think you're a kinky little shit.”

“I'm adventurous, what can I say?” Lee grins as Nigel presses him into the bedding, palms still flat against Nigel’s chest, leaving his hands to be trapped between them. Nigel has Lee caged between his arms, hands behind Lee’s shoulders, fingers wrapped up over them. They haven’t kissed properly yet, but Lee can’t find it in himself to be disappointed, not when Nigel is sucking marks into his neck and mouthing along his jaw.

Lee cants his hips to meet Nigel’s, only to remember that he somehow—some fucking _how—_ managed to forget that, “You’re a cecaelia.”

Nigel laughs against Lee’s throat. “I think we’ve been over that, gorgeous.”

“You...it’s just that...um.”

“I don’t have a dick?”

“Yes,” says Lee before clearing his throat. “That.”

Nigel laughs again, but it’s darker now, dangerous and deep. “Don’t need it.”

Every millisecond of forbidden smut flashes behind Lee’s eyes. It’s disconcerting, even though tentacle porn had fueled several masturbatory fantasies in the past. There’s a difference between the extremely suspect pleasure of confused animated simulacrums and the reality of the warm tendril gently stroking his ankle.

Lee doesn’t realize he’s trembling until Nigel flips them over, pulling Lee tightly against his chest with his arms and nothing else. “Nothing to be scared of.”

“I think there are around eight things to be uneasy about.” Lee nestles his face into Nigel’s neck. “No offense.”

“Too many erotic woodcuts?”

“Something along those lines.” This is hardly the time to explain modern animation magic.

Nigel hums, loosening his grip on Lee, running his hand along Lee’s spine, much like he’d done the night before. “I would never fucking hurt you.”

“I know,” says Lee. “I barely know you, but I _do_ know that.”

“Then just relax, gorgeous.” Nigel cranes his head, eyes all gold and glowing. “I said I'd take care of you, didn't I?”

He captures Lee's lips, at last, sharp teeth nipping, slick tongue soothing the little cuts. Nigel tastes like saltwater, slightly fishy, but so hot that it nearly burns. Lee gladly lets Nigel roll him onto his back again, lost to the easy slide of their tongues against each other.

“Tiny tickle,” Nigel warns him, and it does tickle, the end of a tentacle lazily trailing down Lee's side. Nigel coaxes Lee's legs up and around his waist, and then he keeps exploring, caressing, kissing Lee, swallowing his surprised moans.

There's no warning for the second tentacle, nor the third, both between the cheeks of Lee's ass, spreading him wide. Nigel’s the one groaning now, lowering his mouth to bite at the bloom of blood blushing across Lee's chest. It's enough of a distraction to make Lee reflexively relax his muscles, and then the very tip of a the curious tentacle eases its way into his ass.

Lee gasps, whether from shock or pleasure, he isn't sure, because there's seemingly no prep to be done. The tentacle just keeps slowly pushing in, slippery and thin. He hadn't felt suckers on it before, but Lee definitely feels them now, budding from the tentacle’s hide and pressing themselves against Lee's walls. There’s no thrusting or twisting or writhing, not like Lee expected. Instead, it's more like being opened by an exceptionally long, unnaturally bumpy finger. Lee’s enjoying it, regardless, letting himself go boneless beneath Nigel.

“There you go,” murmurs Nigel. There’s a tentacle wrapped around each of Lee's legs now, holding them up for him as Lee's muscles practically liquify. Two others seek out his arms, looping around them, as well. Lee doesn't feel held down; he only feels secured, almost safe. The ends of those tentacles find Lee's palms and encircle them, like they're holding hands.

“Nigel,” and Lee doesn't know what he intended to say. If Nigel doesn't hang onto him, Lee's certain he’ll float off. He hasn't been so centered in yet simultaneously detached from his body like this before, not in any meditation. It's religious, in a way, assuming the gods have a sense of humor.

The tentacle in Lee's ass has started to curl in on itself, stretching him further. He thinks it will ball up like a fist, but instead just runs down parallel to the rest of itself, molding itself to his channel. Lee knows he must be gaping open by now; it would probably be embarrassing if he could figure out how thinking worked.

Nigel’s repeating Lee's name like he's committing it to memory, like Lee might not truly be here, in his bed, in his arms. Lee’s head is held between Nigel’s hands; it’s difficult for Lee to keep eye contact—there’s simply _too much_ to see in Nigel’s eyes. He’d never known sex could be like this, could _feel_ like this, and it has nothing to do with the extra appendages, still ocean-wet and sun-warmed like Nigel hasn’t lain here with Lee all night.

Lee can’t do more than breathe against him when Nigel kisses him again. Quickly figuring it out, Nigel moves on, presses his lips to Lee’s forehead and temples and eyelids, any part he deems kissable, which seems to be everywhere he can reach. Nigel moves one hand behind Lee’s head, protecting it, seeking out Lee’s chest with the other, circling a nipple with the pad of his thumb.

The second tentacle in his ass catches Lee off-guard because there’s no smooth muscle for it to rub against. ItIn zeroes straight in on his prostate, flicks against it at the same maddening speed with which Nigel teases Lee’s chest.

“That tickle, too, gorgeous?” Nigel asks before kissing the corner of Lee’s mouth. Lee tries to speak, but he’s panting too hard, completely overwhelmed by the emotion; the stimulation; the sheer weight of the moment. But Nigel doesn’t seem to mind. “Fucking love how open you are,” he says, “not just your body. Fuck, Lee—fuck, you’re so beautiful. Your heart is so beautiful.”

“Can’t see it,” manages Lee. A bead of sweat rolls down toward his ear.

“I can.”

Lee laughs at how sure Nigel sounds. “Can you?”

“All over your face, darling.”

He saves Lee the indignity of trying to form some sort of coherent response, speeding up his moving tentacle. It’s pressing into Lee more insistently now, curling and pulling at his prostate, withdrawing and recoiling and springing back in like an indecisive snake, or maybe an eel. Lee’s nerves are electric enough, too many sensations for his brain to process. He doesn’t even know if he wants to come, or if he’d rather lie here with Nigel for the rest of their time together.

“Not enough.” Lee’s voice cracks and strains.

“Of what?”

“Time.”

Nigel pecks his cheek; he’s smiling. “Got all the time in the world.”

Lee shakes his head. How can he feel giddy and terrified at the same time? Physically hot but mentally cold? “We don’t.”

“Only the two of us here,” Nigel reminds him. He reaches between them to wrap his hand around Lee’s straining cock. “Our own little place in the universe. We’ve got all the fucking time in it.”

“How do I love you already?”

“Just fucking lucky, I guess.”

Lee’s orgasm rolls through him, washes over him, his cock jerking in Nigel’s grasp. It keeps going, cycling, Nigel never letting up, continuing to rub his prostate even as Lee goes limp in his hand. He flutters his eyes open, and there’s Nigel, staring down at him. Lee’s heart literally aches in his chest, even as his nervous system stutters, overstimulated.

“Want me to stop?” asks Nigel, slowing down in increments.

“If you love me,” Lee says, “you never will.”

Nigel kisses Lee’s slack mouth until Lee remembers how to kiss back, and doesn’t stop.

 

* * *

 

Nora hasn’t had pigtails for a long, long time. Ryan cut them off during her ninth summer, and she decided to stay rid of them. It was only to upset him, at first; now, it’s simply another part of her nature.

The winters aren’t harsh like they used to be, back when she was very small, so there isn’t even the warmth of her hair to miss.

She doesn’t miss the way the winds changed, either, though it’s getting harder and harder to remember the old wail of it from her childhood. The frost left, and the air was sweeter. Fishing boats dotted the sea no matter the season; the breeze was always favorable, and the storms gentle, and the days long.

“Is that why the Traveler was the last one?”

Nora looks over at her grandson, thumb still in his mouth, damply talking around it. Rob’s gaze is focused on the sky, perfectly blue and striped with starch-stiff clouds. She wonders if Rob can hear the lilt of the wind like she does, or if Nora’s still the only one who knows there are voices to be heard, at all

“No,” she says, turning her head back to the dots of cormorants flying overhead. Even the grass is soft, even if it is still damp and chilled from winter rain. Nora can see it, green and lush, just beyond the edge of her vision, framing her face. “I’d argue that he was the first.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

Nora smiles. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Rob makes a gagging, retching sound. “Love is gross.”

“So are little boys.”

Her grandson doesn’t laugh, but the lovers in the wind do.

**Author's Note:**

> May 2018 be infinitely better than 2017! :D
> 
> [[about me](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/about)] [[tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/)] [[twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan)]
> 
> Kudos and [comments](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/profile) validate my existence. <3


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